


Private Lawns and Public Parks

by kalymnos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalymnos/pseuds/kalymnos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Bobby still in a coma, Sam and Dean find themselves struggling to solve a case that's pitting them against each other. In a short amount of time, they'll have to figure out exactly who and what they can trust, before they lose whatever's good between them forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Lawns and Public Parks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lazy_daze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_daze/gifts).



> For the prompt _current-canon-compliant Sam/Dean first time_.

_Doctor, our insanity is not that we see people who aren't there, it's that we ignore the ones who are._  
-Andrea Gibson

Paula finished the last of the filing and sank back against her chair with a weary sigh. She took off her glasses and rubbed at her forehead, tracing the wrinkles that were just starting to show. This job. She loved it, but it was a killer.

It was almost the end of her shift, and she'd been on her feet for nearly eight hours now. With a surreptitious glance around, she hoicked up her shoes and propped them up on the desk, closing her eyes and relishing in the feel of the ache draining away. It was hardly professional, but she was in just the right frame of mind to declare screw them all; she was Head Nurse and could do what she liked.

"Woo, baby! I didn't know Miss Universe worked here."

Paula groaned, eyes still shut. "Dave, one of these days you're going to get sued for sexual harassment. And I'm not going to do a thing to stop it."

Footsteps approached, along with the sound of squeaking against tiled floors. "Paula, sweetheart, don't be jealous. You know you're the number one woman in my heart."

Paula cracked an eye open. Dave from Cleaning Services was leaning on the reception counter above her, mouth pulled into a lopsided, gimpish grin. Nearing retirement age, he'd been working here longer than almost all of the staff on her roster put together. He had twelve grandchildren and a woman at home he treasured, and Paula adored him and his generous smiles. A place like this, if you didn't laugh you'd cry. "Don't let Elyce hear you say that," she said.

"Elyce? My girl's been making goo-goo eyes at the grocery store man for the past thirty years," Dave said gravely, but his eyes were dancing. "I'm entitled."

Paula smiled, reaching up to lay her palm over Dave's weathered hand. "It's good to see your stupid face tonight, Dave."

He enclosed her hand between both of his and brought it to his mouth for a rough kiss. "You too, honey. They work you so hard, I hardly get to come flirt with you. Rough night?"

"Not bad. Just -- long." She sighed, thinking especially of the two boys in CCU sitting by their uncle's bedside. That room was steeped in a cloak of sorrow and anger, so thick and festering it stifled the air, and it pained her every time she'd done her rounds. The man with the shorter hair could barely bring himself to say two words to her, guilt radiating off him in waves; the taller man, well, he could scarcely tear his eyes away from his companion. It was a sad sight. "It's too late to run away and join the circus, isn't it?"

"Speak for yourself."

Paula laughed. "Tell me a story, Dave. Tell me about Sandy's dance recital."

Dave launched into a story about his granddaughter, and Paula quietly packed up her things to go home, soothed by the familiar cadences of her old friend's voice. As she reached for her coat, a dark figure appeared suddenly in her peripheral vision. She whirled around.

"Margaret! Oh, sweetheart, you scared me!"

Small and impish, Margaret stood at Paula's elbow, bony shoulders curved into her chest. She was the newest member of the nursing staff, quiet and polite and hard-working. Paula was yet to have a proper conversation with her, as they mostly only saw each other in passing, but she'd heard only good things.

"G-good morning, Miss Leary," said Margaret, gaze downcast and cheeks pale. She lifted a fragile hand to grip the counter, almost as if to steady herself.

"You feeling alright there, little miss?" Dave asked. "Exhaustion's for the end of your shift, not the start of it."

Paula frowned. Something wasn't right here. "Margaret, I think maybe you should -- " She cut herself off as Margaret began to sway, her eyes rolling back. Paula shot out a hand to grab her before she could crumple to the ground. "Margaret!"

The girl started, and seemed to pull herself together. After a few moments she straightened, her eyes widening in mortification.

"You alright there?" Paula asked warily. "Here you go." She helped the girl into a chair.

"I – I'm sorry, I don't know what just happened then," Margaret whispered. "I think – I feel so…" She scrunched her face in confusion.

"What's wrong?"

The girl looked up. Her eyes were red with dehydration, her cheekbones a sharp outline on her pallid face. "I'm starving."

 

Sam headed down the hospital corridor, holding a coffee tray and nodding at people as he walked past. Familiar faces stared blankly up at him with cracked cheeks and strained smiles fixed into place; faces he'd come to recognise over the last few weeks. Underneath the harsh antiseptics, the air in the wards hung putrid and heavy with despair, and Sam knew from wandering the halls when he'd had little else to do that this was a place where, if you didn't arrive sick, you'd leave sick.

Passing the chapel, he caught a glance of Lucifer smiling and waving coyly at him from a pew. He halted for a split-second, body jarring as it hovered awkwardly. Nausea flooded his gut in waves, but Sam stamped down on the feeling and moved quickly on.

He paused in the doorway to Bobby's room. Sunken and ashen-faced against the pillows, riddled with veins of tubes and lines, Bobby was a diminished man. It pulled at Sam to see him so broken, but it would take a stronger man than Sam to convince his brother of that fact. Sam's gaze then fell to Dean.

Dean sat in the chair next to the bed, arms resting on the railing. His head was resting in the crook his elbows made, forehead flush to the cold metal bars. It didn't look comfortable, but Dean wasn't seeking relief from the misery right now. He had a bottle stashed in the bedside cabinet for that. He wasn't asleep, but his eyes were closed, and Sam couldn't help being a tiny bit grateful for that. Dean had only a couple of expressions right now, murderous and rampaging or cold and blank, and Sam didn't think he was up to facing either of them at present.

On the bright side, nothing appeared to have changed in the four hours since Sam had left to check their things into a new motel.

Sam sat down in the other chair, opened a newspaper and drank his coffee. He did his very best to ignore the fact that between the three people in this room, they probably couldn't manage to scrape together one fully functioning individual.

The coffee went down black and bitter and scalded his throat. He closed the paper and watched his brother instead.

Eventually, Dean dozed. Fitfully. He startled himself awake after only a few minutes.

Sam looked down at his paper, not wanting it to seem like he'd been staring. "Nightmares?"

Dean scowled, opened his mouth to protest.

Sam spoke quickly. "Yeah, I'm getting them too," he shrugged like it was no big deal, and handed over a coffee.

"Is this where we start comparing horoscopes?"

Sighing, Sam stood up and crossed to the window. Dawn was just breaking, a feeble trickle of light peeking up over the horizon. Sam counted the things he knew: the sun will rise, Bobby is going to die – despite what Dean thinks – and Dean will always be snarky and sarcastic when he's worried. It's no measure of comfort.

Sam turned back around and steeled himself, hands gripping the windowsill behind him for support. "So hey, uh. Listen, I spoke to a doctor on my way back in. He thinks – Dean, he thinks he could be like this for a while."

"And?"

"And – I thought, maybe we could start looking for a case? Or see if we can track down Dick –"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because when he wakes up, we're gonna be here. That's what family does."

A nurse bustled in, saving Dean from the tirade Sam had been about to launch into. She brushed past Dean without a word and set about checking the monitors and replacing drip bags.

"Who're you?" Dean said abruptly.

The nurse looked up, startled. She looked very young and her pallid appearance confirmed Sam's idea of sickness in hospitals – _this_ hospital in particular. "M-Margaret, sir. I was asked to come in, I can – I can check if you'd like –" Her pale blue eyes wide and unsure, she turned to leave.

Dean waved a hand. "No. Don’t bother. Just haven't seen you before."

Sam tried to convey telepathic apologies to the nurse, hissing at Dean as soon as she'd finished her round and left, "Do you think he'd like us just hanging around here bitching at nurses?"

"Speaking of hanging around, is Lucifer still banging around up there?" Dean said.

"Nice diversion." Sam snorted, but resigned himself to not pushing it further. For now. With Dean balancing on a knife's edge, it was just a matter of picking his battles. "But yeah. He's still around."

"Lately?" Dean looked up at him sharply, eyes narrowing, checking for Sam's tells and ready to call Sam on his lie. It stung a little, and smacked of hypocrisy, considering Dean's own recent lackadaisical attitude toward telling Sam what he wanted to hear, but Sam let it slide.

"In the chapel just now. I think he's trying to court me, dude. The way he keeps flashing his teeth and smiling all cutesy. It's mildly disturbing, even for a hallucination." He laughed a little, trying to play the whole thing down.

Dean grunted, unamused. "I wanna tear him to shreds." He looked down at his own hands, flexing fingers and cracking knuckles. Those dexterous hands, those skilled hands; hands that had excelled at taking bodies apart at the seams. The last thing Sam wanted was for his brother to sink back into his own memories of Hell, of the delight he took in shredding up souls on the rack, but from the way his breathing had calmed and centred, from the way his eyes had glazed over and emptied of feeling, it was clear Dean was doing just that. It would hardly matter to Dean that Lucifer was merely a figment of Sam's imagination; he'd done the impossible to protect Sam on more than one occasion before. And whereas in Hell, the prize that came for picking up the scalpel had been Dean's own preservation, out Here it was Sam's. Sam had nearly thirty years of experience to tell him which of Dean's instincts was stronger.

 _"Hey."_

Dean blinked, looking up at Sam."Hmm? Yeah." Exhaling loudly, he lashed out at the side of Bobby's bed, fist colliding with the bars in helpless frustration. The metal rang out, but Bobby stayed still. "Can't help it Sam. I want it real bad." He said that quietly, scratching at the back of his hand.

"Yeah. I know you do."

They fell into silence.

 

[i]

 

Sam was sitting outside on the steps to the hospital's main entrance, breaking a twig into smaller pieces with mindless snaps of his wrist. Behind him, the doors burst open.

"Sam, where the hell have you been?"

Dean was by his side in a flash, grabbing his arm and hauling him up to standing. Sam opened his mouth to respond –

"I've been looking all over for you, man." Dean was pissed, jaw set in a hard line as he frog-marched Sam back into the building. "I hate it when – " he cut himself off, embarrassed, shooting Sam a red-faced glare. The statement hung fully-formed in the air between them though: _I hate it when I can't find you._

"What's wrong?" Sam stopped in his tracks in the busy reception area, frozen like an ice-cold bucket of water had been thrown in his face. "Is it Bobby?"

"What? No, it's – "

"Sir! Excuse me, sir – "

Sam felt someone bump into him from behind, sensed the pinch of a hand digging into his forearm. He turned around, moving out of the way immediately for a man and woman in lab coats to bustle past in the direction of Emergency, their arms full with the barely conscious body of a young man in scrubs. Sam rubbed absently at the small red mark where the sick man must have latched onto him in confusion, watching as the trio disappeared around the corner, a small team of doctors and nurses hot on their tail.

"Here – " Dean shoved him into a small alcove beside a line of pay-phones. "This is what I meant," he motioned back out into the waiting area. "Did you see how many people there were out there?"

Sam frowned. "Flu season?"

"It's a little early for that, don't you think?"

"Dean, it's probably just a lot of people with the sniffles. We're in the suburbs, it's what people do."

"Sam, listen to me for a second!" Dean struggled to reign in his frustration, voice heating, breath quickening. Hissing, he leaned in to be heard over the rising din in the waiting area. "Three people died on Bobby's floor in the hour since you left. That's what I came to tell you. Three!"

"Sick people – "

"And don't you tell me sick people die, it's – it's not that. Something's – off, here, man. There's something weird going on and I wanna see if it's our kind of thing or if it's just – you know – happening naturally."

Sam was still dubious, and tried a softening tone. "Dean, I get that you're worried about Bobby, man. I am too. But all I see is a full hospital waiting room and a couple of deaths in intensive care. It's nothing out of the ordinary."

Dean was about to explode. "It. Was. THREE!"

"Okay, okay," Sam said, soothing. "What do you wanna do – drag our EMF meters through the place? What, do you think it's a spirit? Leviathans?"

"I don't – I don't know, okay." Dean scratched the back of his head, then he swung his arms out helplessly. "I don't know. I just wanna poke around a bit. Just – please. Trust me on this one, okay?"

Sam looked at his brother, at the desperation betrayed in his eyes, for a long three seconds. Dean usually made these decisions without his input; it was weird enough that he was all of a sudden asking for Sam's – what, permission? Especially for something he was so headstrong about.

Dean's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Something bad is going to happen to y-" He paused, looked down to where his fingers were digging into the skin on the back of his hand. Sam saw the beginning trickles of blood, before Dean swiped it away angrily, growling, "To us, and to Bobby, I can – I can feel it."

Sam gave in. "Yeah, Dean, of course – we'll check it out. Lead the way."

 

It took them twenty minutes to run the EMF through the critical-care unit, donning scrubs, caps and masks they swiped from an on-call room. The unit was in a state of semi-organized chaos that meant they were able to walk through unbothered and unrecognized. Dean took off at regular intervals to check on Bobby, hurrying back with a worried but unalarmed frown, clearly torn between who he needed to be with most – Bobby, who was on his deathbed, or Sam.

The EMF showed up nothing.

"Dean, don't you think – oof!"

Dean clamped a hand over Sam's mouth, guiding them back a few paces into an open storage closet. He gestured to his ears emphatically and pointed out the door to the corridor – _listen._

Sam glared at his brother, fed up with being manhandled. But his attention was quickly drawn to the harried voices biting into the air outside.

 _" – been another, a ten-year-old girl – just got out of a tonsillectomy. That's ten."_

 _"Right. What about CDC, have they arrived yet?"_

 _"Not yet. Anything come through from Labs?"_

 _"Not a blip. It's all foreign. Shit. CDC better move their asses, we've got symptoms developing within the hour. This is over my head."_ There was a pause. _"This is so over my head. Okay, I want all staff that were in that theatre checked. Just – find somewhere to put them and just – ask them to wait there, for now. Everybody else, I want in the Madison Room in ten minutes. Can you do that?"_

 _"Do my best."_

 _"Thanks."_ The speaker made to move away, but hesitated. _"Oh, and Mark – keep an eye out for anything that looks like a purple rash, okay? And steer clear of it."_

Hurried footsteps made off in opposite directions, and Sam blinked. He looked at Dean, whose eyes were wide and disbelieving.

"Fuck," they breathed in unison.

 

"Okay, we're getting Bobby and we're getting out of here, NOW."

Sam ran down the hallway to catch up to his brother. "What?" he panted. "No way, dude, he's on life support. What do you think's gonna happen when we – woah-" Sam sank to the wall, clutching his head. Pain ripped through him.

"Sam? SAM!"

Dean was clutching his elbow in a second, other hand coming up to cradle Sam's head. Terrified eyes searched Sam's face. "What's wrong – what is it?"

"H-headache," Sam stammered, straightening slowly as the pain receded as suddenly as it had began.

"It's okay, I'm okay."

"Bullshit you're okay, you just collapsed!"

"Dean – "

"C'mere over here for a sec, just come and sit down – " Dean said stubbornly, prodding at Sam's back.

Sam prized Dean away as gently as he could, saying firmly, "DEAN. We need to check on Bobby. Let's just get to him and then you can check me out, okay?"

"Fine," said Dean through his teeth. "Let's just go, alright?"

They moved together, eating up the yards in the hallways at a determined pace, boots treading heavily against the harsh white floors in unison. Sam felt the prickle of Dean's gaze at his neck like a microchip embedded in his skin, sharp and monitoring like he was expecting Sam to fall to pieces with each step he took.

Halfway back to Bobby's room, they came to a Nurses' Station. Sam pulled Dean to a stop. "Just let me…" He trailed off.

Sitting behind the desk, a woman was leaning forward over her computer.

"Excuse me, uh. Ma'am?" Sam said to the back of her head. He leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling light-headed. He shook it off.

When no response came, Sam moved closer, with Dean a solid weight at his back. "Don't touch anything," Dean growled in an undertone, and then said, "Lady, can you hear us?"

All of a sudden, the woman slumped down. Her head hit the keyboard with a clack before momentum tipped her body sideways. She crumpled to the floor, limbs flung out at awkward angles. Red, lifeless eyes stared up at them.

Sam and Dean stiffened. "Holy shit. Her legs, Dean, look at the rash on her legs. She must've been sick this whole time and nobody's even noticed her. We've gotta tell someone – "

"Don't touch her!" Came a shriek from behind them.

A man jogged up to the desk, sparing the woman on the floor a quick glance before grabbing a backpack from a locker nearby. "Paula was working with Dave this afternoon – he's just been quarantined by the CDC."

"Thank Christ those fuckwits decided to show up and join the party," Dean muttered. "Where're you going?"

"I'm getting out of here," the man said, fear radiating from him in thick, stinking waves. "You should too." He started to run off again, pausing only briefly to fish his car keys from the bag and toss over his shoulder: "The people in this hospital. Everyone. Anyone who's left.

"We're all running out of time."

 

Bobby's room was empty when they arrived, the bed sheets tossed to the floor in a haphazard heap.

"No," Dean said. "Just no."

He charged back outside, Sam on his heels. "Bobby!" Dean screamed, like he expected Bobby to materialize from the bathroom. "Bobby!"

Secretly, Sam too held onto the small hope that Bobby had woken up himself and decided to hightail it out of here in their absence. Without any of his clothes. Sam sighed. "Let's split up, we can look for him faster – "

"Oh no, we're not splitting up – "

"Yeah, okay. Dumb idea."

They combed the wing, the floors immediately above and below, and scanned the parking lot from the overlooking windows. As far as search-and-rescues went, it was a pretty feeble attempt.

Still. There were no signs of Bobby.

"Shit," Sam muttered. "We might have been made." Ahead, two figures in HAZMAT suits started making a direct beeline towards them.

"In here."

The nearest unlocked door opened up to an on-call room. Dean hustled them both inside, settling himself against the door to peer through the small window set in the frame.

Footsteps approached, and they waited, breath stuck high up in their chests. After a few seconds, they heard the sound of boots retreating.

"Okay, we're good. They weren't after us. Let's go."

"Yeah, just uh. Gimme a second." Sam panted, trying to catch his breath. It was all of sudden a whole lot more difficult sucking in the air he needed. Something nasty settled in his stomach.

"Sam."

Sam whipped his head up at the tone of Dean's voice. It chilled him to his bones.

"What is – what the FUCK is that on your arm?"

Sam looked down. A strange coloration had surfaced on his right forearm, its pattern unlike any bruise he'd ever had before. And – yeah. Purple. "Huh. Yeah, I uh." He looked guiltily up at Dean. Dean was frozen. He looked ready to hurl, ready to bolt; so desperate not to hear what he already knew. Sam hated himself so much.

"I think I'm infected, man. That – " he sucked in a breath. "That guy in the waiting area earlier. He grabbed me."

 _Symptoms within the hour._

As he said the words, Sam felt the virus – or whatever was strategically dismantling all of his organs right now – strengthen as if by affirmation. Pain bloomed.

He smiled weakly, said, "It's time for you to go, dude."

Dean stood motionless for several moments. Then he nodded slowly, his eyes clearing. He smirked and smacked his hands together like they were shooting the shit. "Always attracting the crazies, Sammy." He settled down on one of the on-call beds, hands tucked behind his head as he stretched out.

"Dean," Sam snarled. "Get. Out. Now."

Dean grinned at him.

"This is all sounding familiar to you, right? Croatoan?"

"Second verse, same as the first," Dean chirped infuriatingly.

"Fine," Sam said through gritted teeth. "I'll go."

Before Sam could finish turning his aching body towards the door, Dean had already zoomed past and planted himself sure-footed in front of it. He was fearless, bright-eyed and determined, and Sam couldn't touch him.

"Move."

"Can't, Sam."

"Move!" Sam half-sobbed, frustrated and despairing. "Dean, there are people out there. You gotta see if you can help them, they're dying."

"Don't care."

Sam was pleading now. "Bobby might be out there."

Dean paused. His features hardened and he said fiercely: "Still not moving."

"Great," Sam snapped. "Just – great, Dean. What are you gonna do, huh." He picked up a water bottle from a nearby table and pegged it at his brother. "You're gonna watch me die, then, what – blow your own brains out?" He sagged back against the wall, wincing and panting from the exertion. "When are you gonna realise – "

It happened so fast. Dean pushed himself off the door and with eyes blazing, he strode violently across the room. Sam cut himself off, could only suck in a panicked gasp before Dean was reaching out, hauling Sam's mouth down, and pressing their lips together.

Shocked, Sam stood frozen as Dean prised open his jaw and pushed his tongue into Sam's mouth. He licked across Sam's tongue, traced the curve of Sam's lips, and Sam was sure he was delirious and imagining things as Dean sucked everything he could out of Sam, every trace of Sam - all with focus and intent, all as if it would be the last thing he would ever do –

Realisation struck, and Sam roared in anguish and wrenched himself away. Dean stood there panting, staring at Sam, the set of his jaw stubborn and unapologetic.

"Why would you – " Sam whispered, betrayed, latching onto Dean's shirts. Finishing that sentence would be futile. His vision swam, and suddenly the ground rushed towards him. With an awkward slump, he crumpled to the cold lino floor, dragging his brother down with him.

Dean fussed about, settling Sam into a comfortable position against him. So quietly Sam had to strain to hear it, Dean whispered: "Had to, Sammy."

"Yeah," Sam managed, wincing at the pain. "I know you did."

He was dead before the matching purple mark could bloom on Dean's face.

 

[ii]

 

"Sam. Wake up. You gotta wake up, dude. C'mon Sam. Sam. _Sam!"_

With a jolt, Sam awoke.

He blinked up at his upside-down brother. Dean was looking frantic, eyes scanning Sam's face, hands sweeping over Sam's head looking for a bump. Sam smirked, leaning back into his brother's touch. "Here again, huh Dean. Think Heaven will be able to nail us down this time?"

Dean frowned. "We're not – Sam, what are you talking about. C'mon, let's just get you sitting up. Here we go. How do you feel?"

They were still in the on-call room at the hospital. Confused, Sam allowed himself to be pushed about and poked at, but after a while he'd had enough. He swatted away Dean's hands. "Stop that. Dean, what – what’s going on? What are we doing here?"

"You tell me. You said you were going for a walk, and you disappeared for two hours." Dean belted him in the arm. "Which – don't do that again." He led Sam out into the hallway and down in the direction of Bobby's room. "Then a nurse back at the station out there told me she saw you come in here and lock the door. Heard you throwing shit around. What the fuck, man?"

"The virus, Dean! Don't you remember? People dying all over the place, Bobby disappearing. I got infected." Sam stared around at the infuriatingly normalcy of the hospital as they made their way through the corridors – nurses and doctors looking harried but untraumatized, no visible signs of the CDC or a recent heightened state of emergency. He looked down at the stinging spot on his arm, unsure for the first time. "We got infected," he whispered, turning to Dean. "And you – " _You kissed me_ , he went to say, but didn't. "I was with you the whole time."

Dean stopped in his tracks, staring. "No," he said slowly, "you weren't, Sam."

"Right," said Sam weakly. He stabbed at the palm of his hand. "Bobby?"

"Still no change. He's alive, Sam."

"No, I believe you. I just…" He trailed off, looking to Dean for answers.

They spoke at the same time.

"You wanna go for a drive?"

"Can we please just get out of here."

 

In the car, Sam told Dean as much as he could remember. After he was done, he closed his eyes, feeling better with every mile swept behind them.

"The thing is," he mused into the silence after they'd been driving for about an hour. "I didn't see the Devil once the whole time. I mean, not after that time in the chapel."

Dean glanced sideways at him. "Huh."

"It's just strange, you know? Every time I've had one of these, I dunno, longer hallucinations? Lucifer's been there. Either he's there at the start or he shows up to gloat."

Dean shrugged, scratching at the back of his hand. "I guess? Maybe they're getting more advanced. Maybe he won't show up because you've sort of got an immunity to him."

Sam hmmed. "I dunno. I think I'm pretty pissed about it, actually. Thought I'd gotten better at telling the difference between what's real and what's not." He sighed. "It felt so fucking real, Dean. The panic and the virus and the people dying; all the smells, the sounds. I could've sworn by it."

Slowing the car down at a red light, Dean slapped his hand down over Sam's thigh. "Don't go getting maudlin on me now, kiddo."

"Too late," Sam grimaced.

"Hey," Dean said, giving Sam's knee a rough shake. "Buck up. This was just a minor slip. Things will get better. You gotta learn some patience from your big brother."

He winked at Sam and slammed his foot down on the gas, hurtling them forward in a screech of tires. It was almost distraction enough to keep Sam from seeing the tiny crease that formed in his brother's brow as they sped off.

 

After another hour, on some endless stretch of deserted back-road highway, Dean looked down at the dash and swore.

"You know Sammy, you hotwire a car, you at least think people would have the decency to leave a full tank of gas," he complained, pulling them over at a decrepit, no-name gas station, its rusted roof and single gas pump the only signs of civilization as far as the eye could see.

"My heart aches for you," Sam said dryly, stepping out of the car as soon as the engine died. He leaned against the warm metal door as Dean pumped gas. The air was quiet and still, a cool day. Ducking back inside the window to fish a few notes out of Dean's wallet, Sam asked: "You hungry?"

"Bring me a slushie. Red please."

Sam turned and headed into the tiny store.

Dean called out. "And don't skimp. You always fucking skimp. Fill it up."

"How about you just shut up and drink what I bring you," Sam tossed back, banging the store door open, overhanging bell clanging violently. He smiled apologetically at the bored-looking clerk, a middle-aged man with ginger hair and a moustache. The man looked back down to his magazine with a snort.

Sam scanned the minimal selection of food and drinks, heading in the direction of the refrigerator for some waters and sandwiches. The bell clanged again, and Dean materialized at his elbow, muttering darkly, "Like I'd trust you to do my slushie." He then spent a ridiculous amount of time crafting the tallest-ever slushie from the noisiest, oldest-looking machine Sam had ever seen, while Sam rang up their purchases and made a big deal of crossing his arms and tapping his feet in frustration. It always made him feel better.

"Was thinking we could look for somewhere to crash tonight," Dean said as they headed for the exit, admiring his creation. "Think we drove past – "

Sam threw out an arm, cutting his brother off and halting their movement just in front of the door.

Directly ahead of them through the dirty glass, a convoy of rusted-up vans, muscle trucks and big, stinking bikes were sprawled out in the lot, all facing the little gas mart at a head-on angle. In front of the vehicles, an imperfect but organised line of men and women stood silent and watchful, their eyes trained on Sam and Dean; each, Sam noticed with a sinking stomach, held a firearm by their sides in wait.

At the head of the pack, a heavily tattooed man with a scar running diagonally across his face stepped forward, stretched his mouth wide into an ugly smile and tipped his head toward them in mock salute.

"Sam," Dean said warningly –

Just as the leader raised his arm in signal, and thirty fully automatic weapons were cocked, raised and fired straight at them.

"Get down!"

Grabbing each other, Sam and Dean dropped hard and fast, arms up cradling their heads as whole panes of glass shattered and rained down upon them. Hustling, they took refuge behind an old ice cream freezer. The noise was deafening, with an intensity so sharp Sam couldn't tell if the blood running down the side of his face was from scratches or burst ear drums. Empty shells clattered down on their bodies, bouncing around and zinging off the walls. Bullets tore apart the refrigerator doors and drenched Sam and Dean in a shower of liquid from broken bottles. Food from shredded packets sprayed everywhere haphazardly, anything from the top shelves sent crashing to the floor.

It was impossible to tell how long it had gone on for before, as if another signal had been dropped, the shooting stopped.

After a few moments, Sam cautiously lifted his head. Dean was doing the same.

"Sam, you alright? You okay?"

Sam groaned. "Yeah, you?"

"I'll live. Damn." Dean shook off the dusting of debris clinging to his jacket. "Who the fuck are these people?" he hissed.

"I have no idea," said Sam, looking around. The clerk was lying open-eyed and slack-mouthed in a pool of blood. Sam gritted his teeth and thought of all the people who could have done this – hunters with a gripe against them like Roy and Walt, any number of people John might have pissed off back when he was alive, even Leviathans out there on Dick's orders. No way was this just a random attack.

Sam pulled out his cell phone. "Do you have a signal?"

Dean took out his cell. "Nothing."

Gingerly, Dean moved into a crouch, still well below the line of now fully blown-out windows. His hands quickly worked their way through Sam's hair, brushing away shards of glass and coming away red from a hundred tiny cuts. Pulling his .45 from the back of his jeans, he flicked the safety off and inched his torso slowly upwards. The tattered remains of old blinds provided a semi-cover as he stole a glance out into the lot.

"I don't get it. They're just standing there," Dean said. "Top dog just pulled out a six-pack. Little early for celebrations, dude," he scoffed. He slid back down beside Sam. "I dunno, man. They've been following us, right – they could have jumped us a hundred times before now. Why all this?" He gestured around.

Sam closed his eyes, thinking back to philosophy lectures a thousand years ago. "Because it's fun," he said quietly. "It's a game. They're gonna wait us out."

"What?"

"Think about it. They come storming in here, maybe we'd take out a few of their guys before they get us. They wait out there, starve us out into the open – the risk decreases."

Sam saw the moment Dean realised the hopelessness of it all. His mouth dropped open a little, and Sam felt the echoing wallop of despondency in his own chest as he drove the knife home hard.

"It's a siege."

 

"It's not that bad," Sam said through clenched teeth, his head tipped back. Sweat raced down his forehead.

"Shut up," said Dean furiously, tying off the makeshift tourniquet and making Sam wince. "You shouldn't have moved, you asshole."

Dean had been making a break for the opposite end of the store in search of a landline, which had meant getting past the unprotected, exposed stretch where only the doorframe remained. Sam had covered him as he dodged debris and bullets, gun cocked and aimed, happy to land a few shots. But when he'd spotted the small red dot focused on Dean's forehead as he rummaged around the counter, he hadn't thought – he just ran.

The bullet had shot straight through the muscle in his thigh, narrowly missing a major artery. Still, the bloodflow had been generous and untethered before Dean had secured the tourniquet, still sluggish now that it was in place. As soon as it was done, Dean made to surge upwards, muttering something like _gonna get those fucking sonsovbitches_ , eyes wild and murderous, and Sam had to use all his energy to yank his brother down just in time for a spray of bullets to skim over his head.

Huddled together under the register, they lay panting for a few minutes.

The pain in his leg worked to clear his head, and with strong resolve Sam picked up Dean's Colt and pushed it back at him, the weight of his own Taurus a steady comfort in his hand. He nudged his brother and motioned to the doors. "Always wanted to go out like this, didntya?" Sam choked out, slurring slightly.

Dean frowned, looked down at the Colt and back up at Sam. The moment comprehension struck, his face cleared and an aura of something like relief settled over him. He leaned over and kissed Sam, hard and fast and dirty. "Yep," he said, grinning as Sam spluttered in shock.

 

Together, they flung themselves upwards and surged out into the sunlight, guns blazing.

 

[iii]

 

"It's okay, Sammy. You're okay. C'mon, man, wake up."

Sam bolted upright, his chest heaving and his hair wet with cooling sweat. Dean was perched anxiously on the side of his bed.

 _Not dead. Not. Dead._

"Where are we?" he panted.

"Motel just outside of Hammonton," Dean answered, standing up and crossing the room. He tossed a water bottle at Sam. "You were pretty out of it last night when we got here."

Sam gulped down half the bottle. "I don't remember coming here at all." He remembered Dean's lips on his, but Dean wouldn't remember that.

"Doesn't surprise me," Dean said, scratching idly at the back of his hands. "You were, uh. That looked like a pretty shitty nightmare, man."

"Yeah," Sam murmured, fingers ghosting over the smooth skin of his thigh under the blankets. He looked up at his brother, noticing for the first time what he was wearing.

"Dude – are you wearing – is that a pink shirt?"

"What?" Dean looked down at himself, eyes bugging out comically. "What the FUCK?"

Sam cracked up loudly and obnoxiously.

"Hey!" Dean shouted, indignant. "Shut the fuck up!"

Sam sank back against the pillows, grinning wide. "Now I know I'm hallucinating."

 

That night, after being chased across two state lines by a pair of ambitious cops hell-bent on bringing the undead murderers Sam and Dean Winchester to justice, they sailed head-first off a cliff in Blackwater Falls State Park, West Virginia.

 

[iv, v and vi]

 

The pink shirt was the first clue.

After that, whenever Sam merged from one hallucination or nightmare to another, it was always to something bizarre or inexplicable.

One morning while they were at a diner having breakfast, Dean's cell phone started ringing loudly, The Beatles' _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_ set as its ringtone. Dean pulled out the phone and blinked at it. "I didn't set this ringtone," he murmured, shrugging, and answered the call from the hospital about Bobby.

While doing the washing one afternoon, Sam pulled a scrawled receipt from Dean's jeans for a handheld mirror bought at an antiques store in Maryland Sam'd never even heard of. When he showed it to Dean, he just shook his head, unable to explain it either.

And as Dean padded out from the bathroom dressed in a towel, Sam noticed a thin brown bracelet tied around his ankle, the inscription _NOT HERE_ carved roughly into the leather. "What kind of psychobabble bullshit is this?" Dean groused as he threw the offending jewellery in the trash, flipping Sam the bird with a _lamest practical joke ever, dude_.

Sam spent hours every day trying to figure out what each meant. He closed his eyes and all he saw was bracelets and mirrors and diamonds in the sky, and a big, fat ticking bomb like he was running out of time.

And still he dreamt on.

 

[vii]

 

"I'm fine, Dean."

"You were lying unconscious by the side of the road!"

"I'm telling you, I'm fine."

"You just wandered off for half the day. People saw you shouting at a stop sign. You're not fine."

"Dean. Listen to me, I'm – "

"STOP SAYING THAT! YOU'RE NOT FINE!"

Sam set about the task of ignoring his fussing brother, running through everything again in his mind in a mantra – _The Beatles, Maryland, the bracelet_. Then Dean's voice rang out, hysterical and hyperventilating, and wrenched Sam from his own thoughts: "Dude, why do I have a tattoo of an eye on my hand?"

In the bathroom, Dean was hunched over in front of the mirror, scrubbing furiously at the back of his hand with a wash cloth.

"Here, lemme see," said Sam.

Dean ignored him, intent on rubbing the skin off his hand.

"Here," Sam said firmly, prising Dean's right hand away from the sink. He pulled the cloth away gently. There was nothing but clear, red skin. He blinked. "Dean, there's – there's nothing here."

Dean's eyes snapped downwards. He shoved his hand into Sam's vision, panicked and insistent. "It's an eye, Sam, and it's staring and it's right there, man, can't you – can't you see it?"

Sam felt a coldness wash over him, as though a coat heavy with rainwater had settled on his shoulders. The pieces of the jigsaw shifted and aligned together in his mind as if in slow motion. The clues someone out there in reality was planting – the song, the mirror, the inscription on the bracelet, the eye – they were for Sam, but they weren't about him.

They were all about Dean.

Sam wasn't real – at least, not this version of him. None of this was real.

"Dean," he whispered. "It's not – I thought this was all happening in my head, but it's not – it's not me. I'm not the one hallucinating all of this.

"It's you."

 

 _I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened._  
\- Mark Twain

 

The first time it happened, they were at the hospital with Bobby. Sam found his brother in an on-call room. Dean immediately brushed it off, and though Sam could tell Dean was visibly upset by what he'd seen, he too let it go. Dean hadn't been sleeping; neither of them had. It was likely his brother had gone for a walk and found the first appealing place to lie down. An alcohol-fuelled nightmare, Sam reasoned. It happened.

They left the hospital after a fortnight of hanging around with no change at all to Bobby's condition. Sam had wheedled and left encouraging hints in the form of newspaper clippings lying around, and they'd taken on a nearby job, a simple salt-and-burn in upstate New York. Oddly, it had been a difficult case. Dean had been sluggish enough to almost get run through by the ghost's gnarled fingers, and Sam had only managed to tackle him out of the way in time.

At a gas stop on the drive back, it happened for a second time. Dean zoned out completely, slipping into a waking dream right in front of Sam's eyes; a hallucination so powerful Sam couldn't coax him out of it no matter how hard he tried, could only ride it out with his arms clamped down on his writhing, screaming brother.

Sam started to worry then.

When he awoke, Sam held his exhausted but stubborn brother down and, like extracting teeth, grilled him with questions. No, Dean didn't know what triggered the episodes. No, he didn't think it had anything to do with his own time in Hell. No, he hadn't remembered having the previous dream in the hallucination, and yes, yes, _yes, for fuck's sake Sam_ – both times they'd died.

Sam drove them to Maryland for a respite, comforted by the hours he spent behind the wheel with Dean asleep in peace in the passenger seat. He stopped at a thrift store in Montgomery County.

"Just – in case, Dean. Just wear it, please." Sam held the pink shirt in his hands, another two stashed in a shopping bag in the car. He wasn't even sure why he was doing this, acting with nothing but a rock solid feeling in his gut that something so jarring could somehow pull Dean out.

Dean put up a weaker fight than Sam anticipated, offering up only a token _makes me look like a fucking girl_ , before slipping the shirt over his head and climbing into bed. He slept for fourteen straight hours and awoke hot-faced and feverish.

Sam began researching. Through sleepless nights and dry-eyed days, Sam was permanently attached to his laptop. He kept a pristine set of notes. Djinns were off the table; Dean's episodes were separate and periodic, not continuous. Sam played around with the idea of witches, but the whole thing seemed too random and drawn-out for witches normally so intent on revenge, so he set the notion aside but didn't discard it. African Dream Root only worked on dreams, not hallucinations, so that option was out. A demon had telepathy and telekinesis, and could mess around in someone's head for sure, but Sam had never heard of a demon's mind control extending to full-blown psychosis.

He had Bobby's cell and started making calls to numbers Bobby had listed as 'Co-workers', people who were current or retired hunters. A few hung up when he stated his name. A few more numbers were disconnected. Nobody could give him any answers.

"What are you doing? I told you not to get up by yourself," Sam said for the fourth time one night.

"I'm not a fucking child!"

"Then accept the fact that you're sick and you can't do these things alone and let me help you."

"Fuck off, Sam. Seriously. Just get in the fucking car and go."

Sam grew frustrated and panicked, and Dean grew snappish and surly at his own helplessness. Unable to contribute to research and too weak to leave the bed, Dean's episodes escalated and became more frequent. Grasping at straws but unable to simply do nothing, Sam persisted at making slight changes to Dean's immediate bubble: changing his cell ringtone, fastening a leather bracelet around his ankle, slipping a receipt into his jeans pocket. Nothing seemed to work. The only small relief was that Sam hadn't had any hallucinations himself in weeks.

It took Sam longer than it should've to realise his brother had a weird fixation with the back of his right hand. Even asleep, Dean would scratch at the skin until it was red and raw. One night, Sam strapped the hand down, but it only seemed to heighten his brother's agitation as he let out a high-pitched whine. Sam unbuckled the clasp and Dean immediately cradled the hand to his chest, fingers working furiously under the covers and a small measure of comfort flicking across his features.

Sam exhaled heavily and dropped his head into his hands, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.

He was running out of time.

 

Ten days after arriving in Montgomery County, Sam bundled Dean into the car and drove the one hundred and fifty miles back to the only place he could name as the starting point of this whole nightmare: Hammonton Regional Hospital, New Jersey.

 

"Sam. It's good to see you again, honey."

Sam steadied his brother, curled beneath one of Sam's hoodies, against the nurses' station and made himself smile. "Hi Paula."

Paula smiled warmly. "How are you, Dean?"

"He, uh. Had a bit of a late night last night."

"Oh, to be young again," Paula chuckled. "Your uncle's doing well. We moved him out of the ICU. He's actually been responding really well to recent tests."

"That's um – that's great," Sam swallowed, struggling to muster up any genuine joy at the news.

"We're not talking a full neurological recovery, of course." She patted his hand. "Anyway, I'm not really supposed to be the one telling you. I'm sure his doctor will fill you in. He's in Room 9, sweetheart, down the hall and on the right."

"Thanks," said Sam, turning to leave. As he did, he noticed an attractive young woman dressed in a nurse's uniform come to a halt just behind the desk. She looked up, pale blue eyes widening in something resembling panic as they met Sam's. A dull feeling of recognition swept through Sam, but the woman spun and walked swiftly away before he could place her.

 

In Bobby's shared room, Sam settled his brother into the adjacent empty bed, drew the curtains and strode back out into the corridor.

That day, EMF meter in hand, he combed the halls of the ICU, roamed discreetly around the waiting area and even did a quick scope of the hospital's surrounding grounds. The next day he spent eavesdropping on doctor's conversations, changing into a pair of stolen scrubs at shift-changeover to take a look at recent patient databases. The third day, Sam returned to the motel they were staying at last time they were here and tore apart the room from top to bottom, looking for a hex bag or a sigil or something - _anything_.

But nothing seemed out of place. Nothing that could explain the sudden, inexplicable onset of hallucinations.

Exhausted and despondent, Sam returned to Bobby's room that night to find the blue-eyed nurse from three days ago standing at Dean's bedside, watching his sleeping form closely.

Sam stopped in his tracks, the sudden image flooding his mind of a nurse, lifeless and pale, checking on Bobby, brushing past Dean - _Margaret_ , she'd said her name was. Here she stood now, vibrant and rosy-cheeked, almost unrecognisable if not for the same pale blue eyes.

"It was you," he said. "You did this to him."

She glanced up at Sam before dropping her gaze back down to Dean, smiling sadly. "I just gave him what he wanted."

"You gave him hallucinations and nightmares so bad they're killing him!" Sam snarled.

"He wanted them with every fibre of his being."

Sam spat, "You're lying. Why would he want that?"

Even as he spoke, Dean's words about Lucifer from weeks ago echoed in his mind.

 _I wanna tear him to shreds. Can't help it, Sam. I want it so bad._

A small, clear voice told Sam: And if Dean couldn't have that, he'd take away Sam's pain any way he could, even if it meant taking it on himself.

"Why?" Sam asked, voice hitching, before he could catch himself.

Her brow creased and for a moment she looked embarrassed. "I was hungry."

And Dean was dinner. Sam ground his teeth. "Fix him."

"I can't." She shook her head.

"Fix him or I swear to _God_ , I will end you."

She laughed, not unkindly. "You can't kill me."

"I'll find a way. I don't care what you are – "

"I'm a creature you've never heard of or seen before. I'm four thousand years old, and my kind are strong, but we are not cruel. Your brother has been very generous to me." She placed her hand gently, lovingly on Dean's cheek. Sam tensed, but she only closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply.

Removing her hand, she turned to Sam. "I've fed enough from him. I can't fix him, but I will tell you how to help him."

 

Sam drove the freshly-hotwired car at breakneck speed. He flung cash at the motel clerk and snatched up the key offered to him, charging back to the car with a fierce, renewed energy.

Once in the room, he settled Dean into the queen-sized bed with care. Dragging a chair up beside his brother, Sam swallowed and said, "Dean? I need you to wake up, man. I really gotta talk to you."

He picked up Dean's hand and squeezed gently, and Dean groaned. Sam nearly felt sick with relief, thankful that Dean was just sleeping fitfully, not trapped in the dark recesses of his mind. "C'mon man, wake up. Please. I know you're tired but I need you to open your eyes."

Dean tried to turn away, but Sam said sharply, _Look at me, Dean_ and his eyes slowly blinked open, struggled to lock onto Sam.

"Thank you," Sam whispered, helpless in pressing a kiss to the back of his brother's hand. Some color returned to Dean's face at that, and he looked up at Sam questioningly.

"You okay?" he rasped, voice stiff with disuse.

"I will be," Sam said, determined, helping Dean into a half-sitting position. "Dean, I really need you to listen closely, okay? I know what's doing this to you." He took a deep breath, needing to speak the words clearly. "It's a parasite, Dean. It's – it gives you what you desire, but only your most debilitating desire, your most crippling – the thing you want that will hurt you the most. It gives you that and then it feeds off the misery it causes. You wanted to bear the burden of my time in Hell – and you got it, you got it all – nightmares, hallucinations, the works. And it's done this to you." Sam looked at his weakened, diminished brother and had to turn away for a second, a surge of love and tenderness and affection culminating in the sudden, urgent desire to kiss his brother taking him over.

 _Get a FUCKING grip,_ he curses. He'd worked that sort of shit out of his system years ago.

Dean's hand squeezed his. "Dunno what you're talkin' 'bout. 'M fighting fit."

Sam didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Shut it," he said, clearing his throat. "Anyway, it sucks, but we might be able to counter it. Dean, if we – we need to get you the thing you want most, the thing you want that will hurt you the _least_ – if we can get you the thing that will do you the most good, it might reverse it."

Dean didn't look suitably impressed. A frown appeared in his brow, but Sam persisted. "C'mon Dean, I've done the grunt work, now you gotta think. Tell me what you want. Anything, whatever it is."

"Want a piece of pie," Dean mumbled.

"C'mon, Dean. Just tell me."

Dean sighed. "Fine. Here's what I want. I want Ellen and Jo back. I want Lisa and Ben to be safe. I want Castiel and Bobby alive. I want you to be healthy." He looked at Sam and his eyes softened. "I want you to be whole and sane and happy."

Sam simultaneously cursed and adored his stupid, selfless brother. "That's – that's not enough, Dean. That's what you want for other people. What do you want just for you?"

Dean shuffled on the bed. "Told you already."

"Dean," Sam said lowly.

"Just fuck off, Sam, alright?" Dean said angrily. "Cause I ain't telling you that."

"Yes you fucking will tell me!" Sam spat, feeling his blood begin to boil with white-hot frustration, so close to fixing this gigantic mess if not for his infuriating, sacrificing, loved Dean. "I've been going crazy for the past month trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with you. You were a bitch the entire time and I put up with your moping ass while practically mourning you at the same time. You fucking owe me, you son of a BITCH. Tell me what it is right now, or I'll – "

Sam was cut off by Dean's lips, pressed fast and hard against his own in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Dean wrapped an arm around Sam's neck and pulled him down, sliding his tongue warm and strong into Sam's mouth, sucking and biting at his lips.

Dean pulled away after a few moments. "Christ Sam, don't throw a fucking tantrum." He looked away, and his jaw hardened, but his voice was stronger and his cheeks no longer as pale. "Now you know, so you can just fuck off, okay? Just walk out the door and go."

Sam worked his jaw, in shock. "That's it?"

Dean scowled. "I thought I just told you to fuck off – "

Sam laughed, disbelieving. He laughed loud and long and unabashed.

"I've changed my mind," Dean announced. "The thing I want most is for you to get in the car and drive as far away from me as possible."

"You're such a fucking liar."

Dean harrumphed. "Yeah, well."

Sam grew quiet. "I thought you knew," he whispered.

"Knew what?"

"I thought I was a kid with my feelings written all over my face. 'S partly why I went to Stanford. I thought there was no way you couldn't know."

Dean was hesitant, looking gingerly optimistic back at Sam. "Know what, Sam?"

Sam leaned in cautiously, cupped his brother's cheek in hand, whispered, _this_ , and sealed their mouths together.

 

End.


End file.
